


what you're built of

by serayume



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Mentioned sakuatsu, POV Miya Osamu, Post-Time Skip, for a fic like this of mine they actually Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serayume/pseuds/serayume
Summary: Look, itʼs like this. Osamu picks up bits of other people and slots them into his own palm lines like how keys work on locks. One that opens this little storage hidden in the cups of his hands full of all the people heʼs ever loved.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	what you're built of

**Author's Note:**

> when will i write something that actually has some semblance of a plot idk ahahaha but enjoy this anyway

Osamu ties his shoelaces the way his first friend in first grade taught him to. She told him _tie them like this, Osamu-kun, itʼs tighter! See?_ and heʼs tied them like that for years. After praying at a shrine, he leaves small pebbles like an offering because thatʼs what his father did back then. When summer hits, he cuts his watermelon into small sizes as the girl he once had a crush on used to slice them. In winter and cold weather, he wears white sweaters because a boy he no longer talks to but once held hands with always wore them. In sixth grade, Atsumu shared his favorite movie with him, and Osamuʼs loved it too, ever since.

Some of these people—well, they were never going to stay forever. But they leave something with Osamu before they go. Whether it be ribbon-tied shoelaces, mini watermelon slices, or white sweaters in winters. Or the Millennium Actress movie Atsumu probably has a temple for. But you know—that doesnʼt count, anyway. Itʼs not like his twin brother wouldnʼt stay. (Theyʼve separated, sure, because they love different things the same way they love things differently, but that doesnʼt mean they wouldnʼt stay with each other.)

Look, itʼs like this. Osamu picks up bits of other people and slots them into his own palm lines like how keys work on locks. One that opens this little storage hidden in the cups of his hands full of all the people heʼs ever loved. 

Itʼs been his reality for years. He builds himself up over the pieces people leave him with—over the dust that never settled so heʼs left to define it himself.

The word you should watch out here for is the… _loved_ , Osamu thinks, because while heʼs basically a shrine of traits heʼs picked up from everyone and everywhere, up until now, thereʼs still people he _loves,_ people that havenʼt left him with just pieces and shore dust.

And he doesnʼt know what to make of that. Atsumuʼs part of it, of course, and their parents. His long running friends too, Kita-san and Aran-san and even newly made ones, like Akaashi. Osamuʼs taken pieces of them with him as he grew up. Little bits on his palms. Shaky lines full of Atsumuʼs movies and favorite food, Kita-sanʼs red bracelets and Aran-sanʼs way of laughing. 

Well, Suna—one of his best… friends—is why heʼs not sure what to make of any of this, really. You see, he uses this word loosely. He speaks it and writes it and talks to you about it casually like it hasnʼt been ruining his life since he was ten and aware heʼs attracted to boys. _Loved_ , he says, like heʼs done with it. So pretentious, Osamu. Arenʼt you tired not using _loves_ in all its present glory like you have with everybody else? (So afraid, Osamu. So fragile your heart must be if even after years youʼre still denying the chunks of palm lines that could make you a third hand Sunaʼs left.)

Osamuʼs going to give you an easy truth. He first fell in love with onigiri when Suna brought him one when he was six and bedridden with a mild flu. 

The filling was grilled salmon flakes. There were four and a half onigiris. Suna ate the other half on the way there. He remembers the scene vividly—Osamuʼs in his bed, and Atsumuʼs sniffling in the corner because he believed Osamuʼs bullshit that he got sick because Atsumu ate his food like a pig. Suna sweeps in carrying a plate of onigiris while he slams it onto Osamuʼs bedside table. They just fought then, because Suna was his usual prickly asshole self, even at the tender impressionable age of six. Never really changed. It was the way Suna apologized. That, too, never really changed. Can you believe he buys Osamu his own food just to give it to him when they fight? Because thatʼs what he does. 

Enters another palm line Sunaʼs stretched into the inside of his hand. It became, too, the way Osamu apologized. Food offerings without all the grudging slams. Itʼs what heʼs doing _now,_ really, with his hands full of a plate of seasoned cod roe onigiris in front of one Suna Rintarou on a closed branch of Onigiri Miya. 

“I made one extra,” Osamu said. “because I couldnʼt come to yer games twice now.” 

“That should be two extras, then. Cheap as always.” comes Sunaʼs reply, but he hogs the plate to himself anyway. 

“Supply me rice, dipshit,” Osamu replied as he wiped his dirty hands on his apron. “Whatʼre ya hogging that for? Itʼs yours. No oneʼs goinʼ to eat it.”

“ _Be Kita-san, dipshit_ , basically, then? And yer here, ʼSamu. Youʼll take all my onigiris. You and Atsumu are both pigs.”

Osamu sighed. “I said itʼs yours, Rin, so itʼs _yours_. Plus I made that for ya.”

“Dʼya think all that will make me forget that you didnʼt come to my games consecutively, now? ʼCause yer right, it will.” Suna laughed light and the movement of his mouth stretched his cheeks and creased his eyes thinner. It was cute. Sort of. Osamu should probably stuff his mouth with an onigiri because he canʼt stop smiling.

“Fucker.” Osamu full-on grins. 

“Potty mouth there, ʼSamu.”

They eat in silence. Well, Suna does. He downs one onigiri after another and all Osamu does is stare at him from across. Cheek squished as it rests on his palm, he just. Stares. Memorizes the plane of Sunaʼs forehead, maybe. Commits the arch of Sunaʼs nose bridge to his memory. Traces the bow of his lips until heʼs bombarded by the thoughts to kiss Sunaʼs upper lip, which is—wrong. And heʼd take a step back from his thoughts if it was the first time this was happening, but itʼs not. This feelingʼs well been alive ever since middle school and Osamu doesnʼt know when it will let itself die.

Osamu sighs and buries his head in between his folded arms. His legs are half tucked with his feet resting on the stool. He probably looks pathetic. Suna will think heʼs tired _and_ pathetic, but really, heʼs tired, pathetic _and_ hopeless.

“ʼSamu?” Suna said in between chewing. 

Osamu replied with a _“donʼt talk with your mouth full”_ but it came out only as a garbled mess. He goes with an “Mhm?” instead.

“Come home with me next weekend?” 

Osamu turns his head to the side to face Suna. “Whaddya mean? We always go home to Hyogo together. Atsumu might be late, though,” he paused to yawn. “Somethinʼ ʼbout Sakusa.”

Suna laughs at that. “Still canʼt believe Atsumu bagged our resident prickly Tokyo boy.”

“Yer just as prickly,” Osamu said. “And eh, they arenʼt together yet. ʼTsumu still whines to me on the phone daily.”

“Getting there, though,” replied Suna and Osamu just nodded in response. “But that ainʼt the point. When I said come home with _me,_ ʼSamu, I mean with _just_ me.”

Osamuʼs foot knocked off the stool and made a clicking sound on the floor. His head resting on his crossed arms fell slightly and he cranes it back to stare questioningly at Suna. What looks back at him were Sunaʼs fox eyes, piercing even under the lights of Onigiri Miya in the crack of the morning. They donʼt speak.

Osamu wants to shout, desperately, _What the fuck do you want from me?_ right in that moment and cuff Suna the way Atsumu did to him back in high school.

(He wants to feel the rage they both felt, then, maybe, because feelings were easier when theyʼre fueled with anger. Itʼs not going to be clear, but itʼll be said. Itʼll get _heard._ )

He wants his words to slice the air between them so he knows what this finally means. Heʼs too much of Sunaʼs now, just to let go. Osamuʼs already lined up with too many of Sunaʼs mannerisms and words and curls of his mouth just to ruin this with a misunderstood _come home with me._

“Just you and me?” Osamu calls out after a long while.

Suna hums. “Just you and me.”

You know, Osamu thinks about it. Heʼs a mix of all the people heʼs loved, in a way. Heʼs ribbon-tied shoelaces and little pebbles and the movie Millennium Actress all in one. Heʼs stupid white sweaters of the boy he thought heʼd hold hands with forever. But now, heʼs here, his hands empty, and someoneʼs offering him a ride home—country boys on a road trip back to Hyogo full of feelings theyʼve never said out loud. 

Is it smart? Maybe not.

Maybe Osamu can be the stupid twin this time. 

“Okay. Next week. Wash your car.”

“Gotcha,” Suna grins.

No _what the fuck do you want from mes_ because heʼs a coward like that. Just some _okays_ and _wash your cars_ because thatʼs cooler and means he doesnʼt have to deal with his feelings either.

This is safer, Osamu learns. Maybe itʼs easier if he doesnʼt cement the fact and just accept things the way they are because heʼs afraid one day heʼll speak about Suna like a distant anecdote. 

Maybe like this, between unsaid words and a car shared back to Hyogo, Suna wonʼt have to become just a person Osamu loved.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
